


Honorbound

by swordliliesandebony



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 17:57:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14795229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordliliesandebony/pseuds/swordliliesandebony
Summary: Gladio is born with a sense of duty.Ignis is pragmatic.One is a moth, the other a flame. Obligation to the crown makes this a difficult dynamic.Five glimpses into how they come to terms with love while their lives are sworn to the crown.





	Honorbound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xylianna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xylianna/gifts).



**I**

Gladio is born with a sense of duty. That's the feeling, in any case, after so many years of having such drilled in. There must have been some point, some handful of unconscious years between birth and basic comprehension, where the fullness of his life wasn't laid clear before him. Live for your Prince. Die for your King. Do not waver. Do not be distracted. The words, their meaning, were always there. His worth is dependent upon his service. 

His worth is dependent upon how easily he can shrug off the more opaque, unknown challenges that would line such a clearly paved path. His father had warned him of distractions without giving them names and Gladio had cast the idea aside just as quickly, every time. There might have followed a 'yessir' to a lecture, but any further thought failed to spring to life. Gladio, after all, had been born with a sense of duty. Gladio had been told, ceaselessly and from the moment that telling had any meaning at all, that there was simply no other choice. 

He had been taught how to stand, how to walk, how to address his king and—though he didn't take to it quite so easily—his king-to-be. A sword had been in his hand so long as he could lift one. He was, Clarus would say on occasion and with a heat of pride that Gladio would never hear otherwise, an Amicitia through and through. Any question of his role was restricted fully to youthful rebellion. Steadfast loyalty, after all, was the greatest of his duties. 

And what, in any case, could tear him away from that? He had wondered idly over the question here and there. With the reminders drilled so relentlessly, with the eyes on him at every angle, how could Gladio  _ not  _ question it? He didn't sneak away from training—rarely felt even the desire to. He didn't linger at the arcade unless it was at his prince's side. He didn't busy himself with consuming hobbies. He relegated his interests to books that could be snapped shut at a moment's notice, set aside in favor of that all-important obligation that so entirely defined him. He didn't step out of line, not properly, not once.

He didn't fall in love, until suddenly he  _ did.  _ Until suddenly he wanted to spend hours and days and an entire lifetime winning smiles and quiet laughs. Until an incidental, accidental meeting of skin to skin recalled stories of the Infernian with the way Gladio's skin suddenly seared. Until he realized, with pounding pulse and warm cheeks and lips that should not have been wetting his throat, that however ready he was to die for his prince, it was the advisor he wished to  _ live  _ for.

* * *

 

**II**

Ignis is pragmatic. He thinks it comes to him naturally, though he can never really say for sure. He's been reared and raised in such a way that perhaps there was never anything else he could have been. A command from one's king is an important thing, and one issued to a young mind—one just barely formed enough to understand such importance—is formative. His primary commitment, at all times, is to Prince Noctis. He will serve and advise and, though it may be beyond the scope of his duties, he will guide.

Ignis understands his role as well as anyone could. He dedicates himself to it, not because it is expected, but because it is essential. Ignis is pragmatic just as much as he is perfectionistic and those inclinations work in a happy sort of harmony. They focus him. They guide him. They pave a path more clearly than any lecture, any command any could. He will not fail in his role, because he is not a person who fails in  _ any  _ role. He will not fail in his role, because doing so would be disastrous to his prince and his country. 

It's the pragmatism that renders it a relief rather than a burden when Ignis realizes his eyes are drawn as magnets to the Shield.

What harm is there, after all, in engaging in a tryst with a man who shares his duty and dedication quite nearly to the letter? It's only natural that he find the man attractive, all wide smiles and deep-carved muscles; all warm bouts of laughter and warmer eyes. Ignis thought that it was all very convenient, truth be told, that he should find himself lusting so deeply after Gladio. The feeling—and perhaps this was the surprising bit, at least to start—presenting itself as mutual only made it that much easier. 

So Ignis, all pragmatism and perfectionism would happily find himself perched in Gladio's lap, appreciating the heat of a full, heavy cock pressed to his own. He would delight in the hands gripping his ass, spreading and guiding him. And in those eyes locking with and piercing into his own, turning his core to liquid, turning his whole body to trembling ecstasy. And he wouldn't question it too much, if it happened near on every night. He wouldn't find any trouble in the occasional repeat performance should Noctis be occupied with, for once, duties that required neither of their attendances. 

Ignis wouldn't worry about his legs trembling a little while he pried himself from bed—he would worry, eventually, about the impossible warmth spreading his body when he woke to an arm wrapped around him. He wouldn't be concerned with his heart thumping double-time at the works of lips twisting around his cock so much as lips twisting into a perfectly innocent smile. 

Ignis doesn't worry at all until it occurs to him, undoubtedly far later than it should, that he has fallen inescapably into love with Gladio. Suddenly, he's no longer feeling relief.

* * *

 

**III**

Whatever arrangement Gladio has found with Ignis—and it's one they avoid speaking  _ properly  _ about so much as they can—ends entirely and abruptly with the announcement of Prince Noctis's impending nuptials. Ignis is the one to say it, to tell him that they need to stop. Ignis doesn't  _ need  _ to say it, though. Gladio had known, if not immediately upon the briefing of this first true mission, then shortly after.

It should be a relief, really.

Gladio has, as he's always had, his life laid nearly before him. Gladio has a family name to carry, he has a duty to uphold. He has a prince who will, sooner rather than later, become a king. He has an obligation not wake up late, limbs tangled with the royal advisor, sun threatening to lull him right back to sleep. 

He has a broken heart, and that is quite a lot harder to hide when he can't just fuck it away.

They don't speak properly about their relationship when it exists, because it isn't a relationship at all. Ignis is pragmatic and Gladio knows this all too well. Ignis is attracted to him, there's no denying that. Ignis likes— _ liked _ , he has to recall—the things Gladio did to him. But Gladio is in love with Ignis and that part, that was never shared. They didn't need to speak properly about it, because speaking properly about it would wipe 'it' from existence. 

Gladio had, for some length of time, convinced himself that this was okay. That this was preferable. The end would have come one way or another, wouldn't it? They couldn't very well carry on through shared tents and hotel rooms and the back seat of the Regalia. They couldn't hide it any better, Gladio couldn't help but think, than he could hide the way he felt so suddenly cracked and incomplete.

He could, he thought, dedicate himself further to his duty. He could prove himself the perfect shield. He could succeed where nobody before had, could wear the mantle of a man who could not be defeated. He could buy himself some time away from Ignis, when the aftermath of Insomnia's fall has Gladio aching more than ever for his arms.

He could face an impossible trial. He could succeed and return and only carry a couple new scars as sacrifice. 

And he could be felled, all too easily, by a particular look Ignis might give him while the fire dies down and the other half of their retinue retire to the tent; a look to make him wonder if, just maybe, they should have spoken about it properly after all.

* * *

 

**IV**

Ignis, once upon a time, thought he was pragmatic. More than that, he thought he avoided ever encountering true failure. He thought he had balanced it all well, his duty toward Noctis and his attraction to Gladio. 

He had set it aside, when his stomach burnt so strangely at the sight of Gladio and his new scars. He had kept his mouth set into a thin line when he listened to his story, to a tale of utterly foolish pride recounted with, well, more of just the same. He was only upset because Noctis needed Gladio just as much as he needed Ignis. He was only mad that the shield would leave his king unguarded at what—back then—was the worst conceivable time. 

It wasn't exactly an excuse he could use any more. 

His memories, the parts dealing with details, are fuzzy. He remembers putting the ring on. He remembers, at the time, being certain it was the only way he could properly aide Noctis. He remembers, at the time, being certain it was the only way he could remain steadfast to his duty. How many small sacrifices has me made? He wonders if he can count every glance he broke with Gladio, every night he spent silent and sleepless and wondering if, just maybe, he could find a way to balance duty and desire. One more sacrifice, one real—final—sacrifice. He could die clean, he had thought. He would have never strayed that way. Never followed a whim away from the path he had set out for himself. 

The details are hazy except for the ones that aren't. Except for the raw, open anguish in Gladio's voice when they came upon him there. Except for the gentle warmth of Gladio's hand on his back while holy light surged through him, forced his abdication of a promised sacrifice. But the light was hazy and the heat remains present and Noctis is  _ gone.  _

Ignis looks at Gladio. He doesn't hide it and he doesn't stop himself. He looks and he smiles and he doesn't recoil at the sensation that spreads across his stomach, surges through his body when Gladio looks and smiles too. He doesn't pry when Prompto claims—in a voice that was never capable of a proper lie—that he's simply keeping himself busy for his own sanity. He doesn't mind that Gladio insists Ignis get more rest than he needs, just for a couple days. Just for a few excuses to grab at lost time.

Ignis isn't so pragmatic now and he isn't so keen to mourn the change. He doesn't recoil when Gladio admits to what feels like a lifetime of lovesickness. And he doesn't pretend he hasn't been living through the same. 

* * *

 

**V**

Gladio wakes up slowly, a familiar warmth wrapped in his arms. He might have untangled himself, made a point to detach from Ignis before he could notice such affection, in another lifetime. Instead, he squeezes with a little bit more force and he buries his face around Ignis's throat, happy to wake him with a stream of lazy kisses.

Ignis likes waking like this. It takes time to adjust—to the warmth fingers of light tugging them from sleep, and to the simple luxury of being allowed a few extra moments in bed. He relishes in it. He lets Gladio hold him closer and he tilts his head back to offer up more skin for more of that warm, wet affection.

Gladio is quick to obey when Ignis's fingers tangle in his hair, guide him to explore downward on his body. He presses lips and hints of tooth at his collarbone and he revels in the way Ignis arches beneath him, heat and need so easily evoked. He smirks and he lifts to brace himself above with one arm, eyes unable—or at least unwilling—to draw from such an appealing display.

"His majesty will be waiting." He warns, but he warns before dipping to capture Ignis's lips and promise a moment of silence between them. Gladio is in no more hurry than Ignis. And the teasing, well, that's hardly anything new.

"A good king is capable of practicing patience." Ignis replies when their lips part, though his mind is occupied very clearly with matters other than Noctis and his ability to wait for his shield and advisor. There is something unspoken about the fact that, one way or another, it's likely enough their king is still abed himself. A luxury, it turns out, of thoroughly saving the world.

"And what about a good advisor?" Gladio counters, and his eyes remain fixed and sharp and crinkling at the edges with their play. "What are  _ you  _ capable of practicing?" He runs his hand down Ignis's chest, his thumb playing over one nipple, drawing an easy gasp.

"I dare say you're soon to find out." 

Ignis is pragmatic, when the situation calls for it. And Gladio stands staunch in his duty to the Chosen King. They serve side-by-side and, when they can afford it, arm-in-arm and that king only teases them when he learns that this has not always been the case.          


End file.
